Heir to Sevenwaters (42 page)

“Come now or your opportunity will be lost,” said Dog Mask in tones of deepest disapproval.

So I followed the trio of strange guardians out through the gate of thorn, bearing Becan in my arms, and down between the rows of stately trees toward a place where the forest was lit by glowing lanterns. From time to time I glanced back over my shoulder, but if Cathal was following, it was so discreetly that he was invisible. Perhaps his cloak shielded him, even without its cargo of charms. I felt their presence in my bag, against my back: reminders of the world we had left, the world where we belonged, the world that held our hope for the future. On my finger, the green glass ring was smooth and cool.

As we walked, Becan awoke. His pebble eyes came slowly back to awareness; his twiggy mouth opened in a wide yawn. Under the shawls, he flexed his limbs, his sharp elbow digging into my chest. “Oo-roo,
little dove
,” I sang under my breath, but the lump in my throat was so big I could manage no more than that.

The avenue of forest giants opened out to a clearing neatly bordered by a circle of pale stones, each the size of a small child. Above, the sky had turned to indigo, but neither stars nor moon appeared there, and I was still oppressed by the sensation that this entire realm, trees, animals and all, lay underground. Around the perimeter of the open space, above the stones, burned lanterns of many shapes and colors, suspended from the branches. They cast a warm light over the motley assortment of folk gathered within the stone circle, so many and so varied I found myself gawking like a simpleton, unable to take the scene in. Most of these people were tall and elegant; most were clad in finery of one kind or another, though their clothing bore little resemblance to that of my own world. There was a woman in a gown of sheerest gossamer, beneath which her not-quite-human figure was clearly visible in its nakedness. It made me blush. The man with the black owl was there, speaking to another whose long robe had a patina like that of butterflies’ wings—if it was real, hundreds of them must have been sacrificed to make this extravagant garment. There were some folk clad in leaves, and some wrapped in strange watery fabrics, and some in raiment of brilliant feathers. I took the taller, grander ones to be the Tuatha De, who had inhabited the land of Erin long before my own kind had come to this shore. But they were not the only beings present in Mac Dara’s hall tonight. Smaller folk mingled with them, many no higher than my waist. Some were little more than wisps of vapor with strange eyes; some resembled hedgehogs or foxes or swamp hens as much as they did men or women. My head turned from one side to the other as I tried to absorb it.

“Over there,” said my masked companion, pointing.

In the center of the circle, on a rise, stood an enclosed pavilion hung with silken cloth of deep green. An edging of silver glinted in the lantern light. Ivy twists and red-berried garlands festooned the uprights. It seemed this was where the Lord of the Oak would hold his audience. Huge guards stood to either side of the entry, where the fabric was looped back by glimmering cords. I could see little of the interior, save that there seemed to be a fire within—a foolish risk, I thought, but then, this place could not be expected to follow the rules of the human world. The segmented helms of the guards gave them the look of gigantic beetles. Their hands were clad in gauntlets, and they held spears tipped with gleaming serrated blades.

Trumpets sounded a ringing fanfare. I glanced down to find that my small companions were turning to leave. Panic swept through me.

“Wait!” I said. “Don’t go! Where is Mac Dara? What do I do next?”

“We do not enter Mac Dara’s hall.” The mask concealed any expression, but the tone was flat and final. “Our kind does not mix with his kind. You must go into the circle. When your name is called, step up to the pavilion. You will be invited to enter and present your case. Once you have your brother, return to us as quickly as you can. We will guide you safely from this realm.”

I watched them slip back under the trees. There was no sign of Cathal. I told myself that was a good thing. He would be safe. I could do this on my own. I simply had to walk through this intimidating throng with my palms clammy and my heart hammering, enter the heavily guarded pavilion, and make a coherent speech before a prince of the Tuatha De. “Here we go, Becan,” I murmured.

I walked forward, the baby in my arms. He was hungry again; his little whimpers attracted the attention of the sumptuously clad folk and a hush fell over those closest to me, spreading quickly through the crowd. Strange eyes turned to watch us pass: elongated eyes like those of cats; glowing, faceted eyes; bulging eyes that would have suited a toad. A whispering began, but I could not understand what they were saying. I held my head high. I was a daughter of Sevenwaters. I would do this.

There was an empty space around the pavilion, as if nobody was prepared to approach beyond a certain point. I hesitated on the edge of the crowd, wondering if I should venture across this area. My instruction had been to wait until I was called. Becan began to squall, wanting his honey water. The sound jarred horribly; pained expressions began to appear on the lovely, nonhuman faces of the folk standing near me. A panicky feeling gripped me. There was something terribly wrong about this place, these folk, this whole endeavor. I could feel it in my bones. I put the baby up against my shoulder, patting his back. I had never felt more out of place. “There, there,” I murmured. “Not long now, sweetheart.”

As if my words had been an invitation, folk began suddenly to crowd in around me, whispering, murmuring amongst themselves. Inquisitive fingers reached to twist in my hair, to brush my body, to poke at Becan’s face. His little form stiffened in my arms. I tried to shield him with a fold of my cloak, but there were many of them and most were far taller than I. Someone pushed me. I stumbled, almost losing my balance. Someone pulled my hair hard.

“Release her.”

The voice was deep and dark. So commanding was its tone that my molesters fell back in an instant, leaving me standing all by myself between the crowd and the silken pavilion. I looked toward the tent’s opening and my jaw dropped. The man who now stood between the guards was tall, lean, dark-haired, clad in a sweeping black cloak. It was Cathal.

“Come forward,” he said, beckoning with a long-fingered hand, and his thin lips formed an ironic smile.

For a moment I stood paralyzed with shock, and then I saw that it was not Cathal but that other man, the one in the vision. They were very alike, but this man was taller, and although he looked young, no more than five-and-twenty, his eyes were old. They were the eyes of a man who had seen so much of sorrow and loss, of cruelty and trickery and heartbreak, that nothing much mattered to him anymore.

“Come, daughter of Sevenwaters,” he said, and this time his voice held a note of tender familiarity. It was so like Cathal’s that it jolted my heart.

I reminded myself that this man had killed Aidan in cold blood. I could not understand what cruel trick he was playing now. I was not brave enough to challenge him in front of this crowd of whispering, pointing folk. Gritting my teeth, I walked toward him, clutching Becan so tightly he squealed in alarm. “It’s all right, little one,” I whispered. Then I was facing the stranger, not three paces away, and he extended his hand to cup my elbow in courtly fashion and usher me into his sanctum. I was trembling with fear.

Inside, the pavilion was much more spacious than had seemed possible from its outer appearance. The fire burned on a neat hearth of stones, making no smoke. Lamps on creature-shaped stands stood around the area: a dragon held this light, a phoenix that one, a sinuous serpent a third. There were low seats covered with what might have been wolf skins and strewn with embroidered pillows. On a small table stood a jug with a graceful curved handle and several delicate cups of colored glass, three of them filled with ruby-red liquid.

“Welcome,” said the Lord of the Oak. “A difficult journey. You’ve been hurt.” He reached out again, this time to touch the cuts on my face. The soft tone and delicate gesture might have been Cathal’s. To my horror, I felt a blush rise to my cheeks and a warmth spread through my body.

“Don’t touch me!” I snapped, shrinking away. “There’s no need to do this, to make yourself look and sound like my friend. I know you’re not him. You don’t fool me for a moment.
He
would never kill a man who had shown he was ready to parley.” And although I knew I should not antagonize him, for this must be the powerful prince with whom I had to negotiate my brother’s return, I was proud of myself for being honest.

He threw back his head and laughed. It was a full-throated sound of unabashed amusement. “Sit down, please,” he said when he was finished. “Let me offer you a drink.” He moved to the table. He was a well-made creature, I could see that; even a woman of experience would succumb quickly to the charms of such a man. Could he possibly have assumed Cathal’s form with the intention of seducing me? I seemed to remember that the tales of Mac Dara included numerous exploits of that sort. This prince of the Fair Folk might have been watching Cathal and me all the way; he might have spied on our most private moments. If he thought he could dazzle me with his charms, he thought wrong. There was only one man I wanted, and it wasn’t this one.

“Thank you. I will not drink.” I sat gingerly on the very edge of one of the draped seats, and he came immediately to settle his long form beside me, his leg almost touching mine. “I take it you are Mac Dara, the Lord of the Oak,” I went on. “As you can see, I’ve brought back the child who was left at Sevenwaters in my brother’s place. I wish to take Finbar home.” Becan had quieted; he was gazing at the lamps. I was grateful for that small mercy.

“Oh, let’s not get down to business yet,” drawled Mac Dara, stretching his arm along the cushions behind me. “Your family, I understand, has long supported my kind in our endeavors to hold onto what little safe territory is left to us. Indeed, one or two of yours have coupled with one or two of mine over the years, or so I’ve heard.”

Was he referring to Ciarán’s mother, who had been a dark sorceress? She was the only person of Mac Dara’s kind I had ever heard of in the lineage of my family. I didn’t imagine he meant the Old Ones, though I knew they had a place in my ancestry. “They say that is so,” I murmured. Everything about him was making me edgy. I wished he would transform back into his true self, even if that self was hideous beyond belief. I hated his being in this not-quite-Cathal form. The familiar turned subtly unfamiliar: it was the most frightening thing in the world. “The folk of Sevenwaters made a pact with the Tuatha De, long ago, to look after the forest and the lake, to keep them safe, and not to allow disbelievers to turn your kind out of their homes. We’ve kept to that as well as we could. The Fair Folk helped us in their turn.”
But I suspect that was before your time.

He laughed again, as if he could hear my unspoken thoughts. “So they tell me,” he said. “Myself, I’m from the west. Those with whom your grandmother and her brothers dealt are gone from here, passed over the sea with a turning of the tide. You have the air of a startled rabbit, young woman. I mean you no harm.”

I had to ask. “If you are a friend of Sevenwaters, why did you take Finbar? My mother has been almost destroyed by it. She so longed for a son.”

“The child was a means to an end. You can have him back. We don’t want him.” He might have been talking about an excess of beans in the garden or a cockerel too many in a brood.

“Thank you,” I said after a moment. “May I see my brother now, please? I wish to make the exchange and leave. There are people at home who will be terribly worried. I must get back.”

“Calm yourself, daughter of Sevenwaters. Your brother has been well looked after; we acquired a nursemaid for him. He’s had everything a human child needs. There is no cause for haste or for anxiety. That little frown does not sit well on your pretty face, my dear.” I felt his cold fingers against my neck, toying with my hair. I tried not to make my disgust too obvious.

“I have another question,” I said. “You killed a young man called Aidan, shot him in cold blood out in the forest not long ago. Why?”

Mac Dara shrugged. “Why does one do these things? Need there be a reason?”

His insouciant manner appalled me. “How could you kill someone without a reason?” I burst out. “That is evil.”

Mac Dara shrugged. “It was entertaining. Briefly. I’m easily bored these days.”

I could think of absolutely nothing to say. If the tales were true, this man had once led great armies, ruled a vast territory, held off powers worldly and otherworldly with consummate strategic skill. He might never have been a particularly likeable character, but he had been someone of influence, a leader. That such a man could fall so low sickened me. “Perhaps,” I said eventually, “you have lived too long.”

There was a moment’s silence. His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt me. Then his thin lips formed a smile. His grip relaxed; he stood and moved to the small table, picking up a cup and draining the contents. “You’re outspoken,” he commented. “I suppose that goes with the flaming red curls. You have courage. No wonder he wants you so badly.”

I looked at him. He gazed back at me, his dark eyes suddenly serious in his long, pale face. And if a spell or charm had banished the clue I needed from my memory all this time so that I had failed to put together the pieces of this puzzle until it was almost too late, now, in an instant, I had it. I remembered Willow’s third tale: the fey woman Albha and her half-human daughter, and the tricks and maneuvering with which Albha had sought to get her back. The charm she had cast . . . Gods, the charm had everything in it, every single step of the journey that had brought Cathal and me to Mac Dara’s hall.
Cross the river left then right . . . the field of time, no, thyme . . . fall so far you cannot climb . . . sorrow’s pathway . . . the gate of thorn . . .

“You’re his father,” I breathed.
I have a theory
, Cathal had said.
I very much hope I’m wrong.
He had hated the extraordinary scrying talent his unknown parent had passed on to him. How much more appalling would be the confirmation that he was the son of this dark Otherworld prince and only half human? “You haven’t assumed his form. He looks like you because he’s your son. You look young because of what you are. Cathal was right. You’ve done all of this, every single bit of it, just to lure him back. Why didn’t I see it?”